Felun

“Here,” he said, holding out the veilment. “Put it on and leave any talking to me.”

“What the hell is this?” Ishaan asked. He draped the illusion-working over his shoulders, forming a cape of shimmering threads. It billowed as if tethered to its own miniature breeze. “Is it supposed to make me invisible? I don’t feel very invisible.”

“You’ve got to pull it over your face too. And no, it makes you look like a different person.” Felun hesitated awkwardly. “It’s only a visual trick. You should probably wear some shoes to muffle your steps.”

“Okay.” Ishaan slipped on a pair of sandals before pulling the rippling weave over his head. The shimmer winked out as he morphed into someone else entirely. “Whoa,” he said, taking an unsteady step. “Feels strange.”

“Yeah, probably.” Felun tried not to feel too disturbed by his association of the new face with ‘human-Silverwater’. “He’s taller than you, so it’ll take some time to adjust. Mind how you swing your arms.”

“Oh, I meant…” Ishaan held up his seemingly unharmed hand and trailed off as he turned to close the door. “Never mind. Who’s ‘he’?”

Felun shook his head and knelt by the keyhole. “Just an associate. Do you have anything I could use as a pick?”

Ishaan blinked. “I thought you could—you know, with your magic?”

“Yes, but I don’t know how closely the pilots are monitoring the ship. Or father, for that matter.” He was pretty sure he could weave his way through the delicate triggers and failsafes, but he felt a lurch of unease at the thought of being caught now. Better to be as traceless as possible, go the old-fashioned way. “Check the drawers?”

It was fortunate his parents had been too preoccupied to have fully cleaned out Yuying’s room before shoving Ishaan inside. There were plenty of hairpins of different shapes and sizes left in the dresser table. Concentrating, he fed a pair of the finer ones into the keyhole. It’d been a long time since he’d had to physically pick a lock, much less unpick one. His mind had forgotten, but his hands hadn’t. It took a little longer than it used to, but the tumblers clicked shut.

“Come on,” he said decisively. “Let’s go. We’ll try to be back by noon.”

Ishaan-wearing-human-Silverwater’s-face nodded enthusiastically. “That sounds good—but really, get that worried look off your face. They only check on me after dinner and even then it’s not every day. They don’t give a damn as long as I’m not climbing out the windows. Which I can’t, by the way; they don’t open. I checked.”

“Good thing you’re only walking out the front door then,” Felun said unthinkingly—a stupid joke, just like the Ironport days. For a moment, he thought Ishaan might scowl disbelievingly, might be disgusted he could act like nothing had changed, like the very legs he walked on weren’t being used to keep him hostage.

But Ishaan, sporting illusory-flesh-legs for the time being, only chuckled. “Lead the way.”

He did. The guards at the door only cast a brief glance at Ishaan’s disguise before one of them turned to address Felun.

“Would you like an escort, Firstson Zhao? The last shift spotted some thaumaturges lurking places they shouldn’t be.”

He shook his head, trying to channel father’s self-assured authority. “No, no need.”

“Alright. Take care out there.”

And that was that. He was faintly stunned that it was so easy. They took the path leading straight to the artisan’s district, bypassing most of the busier markets. Ishaan turned and stared openly at the clay-brick houses and streetside stalls, layered with patterned ribbons.

“Hey Felun,” he said as they rounded the corner to the woodwright’s shop. “What should I be saying? Should we agree on some story—you know, about how this happened?”

Felun cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Well, I thought the truth would be…common enough. If he asks.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Too much scarring to pretend I was born like this.” He brightened. “Hey, I get to pick a fake name, right? How about ‘Harsha’? Do I look like a Harsha? I’ve got a cousin on each side named Harsha, so family resemblance can’t be wrong, right?”

“That sounds fine.”

“Anything else?”

Felun hesitated. “Haven’t thought this far ahead, sorry. You’ll have to pretend we’re friends, though.”

Ishaan gave him a funny look. “We are friends.”

“Right,” Felun said, after a pause too long. He steered Ishaan into an alley between two shopfronts, not wholly trusting his inattention runes to stave off the notice of so many passers-by. “You should probably take off the veilment now. Don’t want to explain how I got it. Think I’ve got enough silver to buy his silence for everything else, at least. Just don’t say you’re being kept prisoner or anything. Try to be as uninteresting as possible.”

“Yeah, obviously.” Ishaan pulled the veilment off and handed it to him. “I’ll copy Cousin One’s preoccupation with the weather, and Cousin Two’s shaking the hand of everyone he meets. Anything else I should know?” His silver hand gleamed in the sunlight, almost blinding to the eye. “I should probably take these off too, right? Very suspicious, going for a downgrade. You’ll have to help prop me up or something, but they gotta have chairs inside.”

Felun winced inwardly. They really had considered everything, hadn’t they? Even if Ishaan had figured out how to calibrate and recharge the runestones himself, the flashy silver coating would point him out to every scumbag thief or bandit on the road looking for an easy target. He hoped against hope that this slapdash solution of his would work—the possibility was at least a hell of a lot better than he’d hoped for.

“If you’re fine with that. I can put them in my bag until we’re done.”

“Yeah. Do you have a towel in that thing?” Ishaan grimaced. “Need to dry off.”

“I think so.” After some digging, he found that he did. “Here. You want any juice?”

“That sour stuff you like so much? No thank you.”

Ishaan unfastened his hand and dropped it into his satchel before sitting down to undo each leg. Felun looked away, chest heavy with guilt. He was here to fix things, he reminded himself. Here to help Ishaan and here to help himself by extension. Once he was no longer beholden to his family, he’d be free of the faeries, and then…

He didn’t know what, after that. But it would be undoubtedly better than what he was doing now.

Ishaan was right; there was noticeable scarring. Felun avoided looking too closely as he tried to help him to the shopfront. “Sorry, I don’t…I’ve got gliding runes, but I think you have to jump for them to work properly.”

“It’s fine,” Ishaan said, waving him off. “I can use my arms.”

It looked uncomfortable, and he wished he had one those clockwork chairs at hand, like he’d seen some people use back in Ironport. How was he going to explain getting Ishaan all the way here from the skydocks? Should he say that he carried him with a float rune? Or would that be insulting?

“You’ll have to pretend you’ve learned some kind of levitating spell,” Ishaan joked, leaning against the doorframe. “Let’s hope they don’t ask for a demonstration.”

He couldn’t think of a good reply and knocked on the door instead.

The woodwright answered swiftly this time, his gaze darting from Felun down to Ishaan and then back again. “Hello,” he said. “Wait just a second. I’ll bring a chair.”

Unlike Felun, he did have a wheeled seat on hand, with padded armrests worn smooth. Ishaan introduced himself and shook the woodwright’s hand with great enthusiasm.

“Good to meet you,” the woodwright replied cordially, extricating his hand from Ishaan’s grasp. “The name’s Mahir, at your service. You were wanting some new legs, correct?” He lifted a bundle of cloth bandages onto the counter, where they sat alongside many lengths of wood and the half-finished shapes of furniture and various instruments. Yet more wood was piled up against the walls save for one, which had a handrail installed. “I’ll need to fit a socket. You don’t have experience with prosthetics?” He phrased that last part delicately, but Felun could sense him glancing between them and wondering how they’d made it up the hill.

“Used to, but they broke,” Ishaan said easily. “Sir Zhao here helped me make the journey. What kind of legs do you make? We’ve got erm…a budget, don’t we?”

Mahir’s brow furrowed as Felun took out eleven ingots and stacked them onto his countertop. “I see.” The woodwright took one in his hand and hefted its weight. Then he plucked a jeweler’s glass from beneath the countertop and examined each ingot through its runed lens. “Yes, this should be more than sufficient. I notice you might be wanting a hand, too?”

“No,” Ishaan said. “I just need to able to walk.”

Felun cleared his throat as he slid the last ingot over the counter. “This is a discretionary purchase, by the way. No need to go around speaking the Sungrazer name or anything like that. In the unlikely event any of my kin come to this shop, I’d prefer it to be said that we were never here. These can be melted down quite easily and recast, you understand?”

Mahir nodded sombrely. “I see. But I can’t control what my fellow merchants might say, if they saw you about the place. Market wanderers, either.”

Felun shook his head. “It’s for what you see, inside your walls.”

Mahir unslung the measuring tape from around his shoulders. “You can consider my lips sealed. Now, shall we?”

Felun watched on as Mahir wrapped Ishaan’s legs in cloths and tubes of soft, flexible material made from what he claimed was the sap of enormous, thorned desert dandelions out in the Killing Fields. Then he mixed up a plaster-like solution, chatting amiably with the air of one practised at it. Ishaan answered and chuckled at all the appropriate places and, true to his word, made constant remarks about the weather as the casts dried.

“You’ve truly come to the right place,” Mahir said as he fetched two large blocks of wood from his countertop. “Some other woodcrafters, they cheap out on materials or mix together all kinds of scraps, soft with hard to save cost. Then they paint over the surface to hide it. But look—not me. This is five-year-dried salt oak, in whole pieces.” He rapped his knuckles against its surface, the corners of his eyes creasing as he smiled. “Whatever I shape, it won’t split in a few weeks of use. Here, watch.”

He took one of the blocks hummed under his breath. It began to pull under his hands, hollowing into a thin, draped sheet around the plaster mould. A soft, mahogany light emanated from his fingertips as he sculpted, murmuring about grain direction and fit and comfort. When he was done with the socket, he sculpted the leg and foot and encouraged Ishaan to try it on while he excused himself to fetch a glass of chilled tea. Then followed the next socket and leg; this one needed to be longer than the other, with an oiled wooden hinge incorporated to replace the knee. After that came a series of finer adjustments where he paused to dab a handkerchief to his nose at various intervals. The cloth came away spotted with blood.

“Apologies, gentlemen,” he said. “I usually work on single limbs.”

“Take your time,” Ishaan said easily. “Shaping’s tough on everyone.”

“Nonsense,” Mahir said, though he took a generous sip of tea. “It’s a pleasure to be of help. My mother lost her feet to a disease when I was young, you know. And later, I had an accident of my own.” He gestured to his wooden leg. “There are so few places willing to fashion proper prostheses, especially when the palace folk have their special mages. So this has become my little specialty. I’ll be alright in a minute. Just another modification to better distribute the pressure, and we can have you try standing up along the railing.”

“Special mages?” Felun asked casually. “The city folk do carry on about fleshcrafters.”

Mahir gave him a mild, amiable smile. “Ah, pardon. I can’t be sure.”

“I see. Magician’s rules?”

Mahir cleared his throat, kneeling back down to prod at his woodwork. “Much as you request discretion from me, Sir Zhao, I must request discretion from you. It’s nothing personal, you understand. I have my family to think of.”

“Right. Apologies.” He backed off and watched as Mahir tucked more cloth liners into the leg sockets and moulded the wood to accommodate them. Then he used a tin of clear gloss and sparks of magic to complete the work, polishing each surface smooth.

Soon, Ishaan was standing on his new legs and cautiously wobbling across the workshop in them. “Phew, these are nice.”

“You broke your old prostheses rather recently, correct?” Mahir remarked. “Then the muscle adaptation won’t be so bad. But be careful not to push too far in the first few weeks. Here’s some oil for the hinge, and replacement liners for when this one wears out. Come back at once if there are pressure problems or if the fit changes.”

“Thanks,” Ishaan said, flashing a grin. “Love ‘em. They’re leagues better than—erm, well, I just can’t wait to show off to the folks back home.”

They exchanged parting words and last handshakes; Felun contributed, though he was sure his practised response rang far more hollow than Ishaan’s.

“What do you want for lunch?” he asked, once they were back outside with Ishaan’s veilment safely donned. He’d swapped the wooden legs back for the silver ones, too, which lightened the load on Felun’s shoulder.

“Lunch?” Ishaan glanced at the position of the sun. “Ah, damn—did we miss it? I didn’t realise he’d make the legs all in one go.”

“Me neither.” He’d assumed Mahir would take some measurements, name a price, and tell him to come pick them up at a later date. “But you must be hungry.”

“We can eat back at the ship.”

“Do you want to be stuck back in the ship so soon? I don’t know how many more uses this disguise will last.” He considered mentioning Yuying’s predicament, then kept his mouth shut. Better not to complicate things.

Ishaan hesitated. “Didn’t want to get you in trouble. Won’t they notice you’re missing?”

“Mother doesn’t have any more meetings until this evening, at least. They don’t care what I do otherwise.”

“Okay.” He nodded. “Lunch would be good.”

“You go ahead and choose.” He hoped it didn’t sound too much like pity.

They bought platefuls of rice and spiced lamb at an establishment overlooking the distant mountain river, with cupfuls of a strange, perfumed milk pudding for dessert. A fully-grown ironwood provided shade from the summer sun. It was the most relaxing mealtime he’d had in a while.

“So…you think you’ll be able to walk on them?” Felun asked once they were finished eating.

Ishaan leaned back from his cleared plate, clasping his arms behind his head. A warm breeze rustled the dappled shadows over his shoulders. “Walk, yeah. But no running.”

“No running? That’ll make things harder. Not even jogging? I could…” He hesitated. “I should probably leave the wooden legs with you to practice with, then. If you’re sure you can keep them hidden.”

“It doesn’t work like that. Not even this fancy Cathayan silver’ll mimic proper ankles.” There were leftover ice cubes in their drinks; Ishaan picked up his glass and tipped them out onto his palm. They melted together, forming the shape of a cat.

Felun digested that piece of information, faintly troubled. Nothing’s the same, Ishaan had said. He hadn’t paused to think how. “Is there’s nothing else that we could—”

“I don’t think so,” he said, placing the miniature cat onto his empty plate. It sat down and began licking its paw in lifelike approximation. “Nice of you to help out. But none of your folk know I’m a mage. I’ve got a back-up plan.”

Is it a good back-up plan? Felun wanted to ask, thinking of the dead Breaker’s journal. He refrained from voicing that specific thought.

“How mobile is it?” he asked instead. He could think of a few ways Ishaan’s specialty could be twisted to help him that way, but they all seemed impractical at best. Difficult to hide, too.

Ishaan gave an uncertain smile. “Decently. But the less you know, the better. You catch my meaning?”

He gave a jerky nod. The less he knew, the less opportunity there would be for betrayal and sabotage. Not that it was in his interest to do so, but decent dungeonrunners didn’t take unnecessary risks. And if this had turned out to be a worthy detour in the end, they wouldn’t need a back-up plan. The little ice cat lay down and began to melt as Ishaan loosed his hold on the magic.

“I’m going to get some extra supplies,” Felun said as they left the restaurant. “Do you need anything else for that back-up of yours?”

Ishaan hesitated. “Couldn’t hurt. But are you sure you’ve got enough money?”

Felun fished around inside his satchel and withdrew a full pouch. “Here. That should equal forty silvers, give or take. My aunt said most of them take Glisterian coin, so just ask first. Should we meet back at that square down there?” He nodded down at it, with its skyfish statue and colourful bunting.

Ishaan looked dumbfounded as he took the purse. “You trust me to come back?”

“I’ve already taken you all the way out here, haven’t I? It wouldn’t be a great idea to run off in such a small kingdom—that disguise’ll wear off and I’d really like it back before it does, by the way—but you always did plan for the most likely exit strategy. Also,” he added, “The less I know, the better. Right?”

“Alright. See you back here. I’ll try not to take too long.”

“See you,” Felun acknowledged. He’d passed a promising shop on the way up, and he’d kept it in mind.

The proprietor was an elderly woman with a shorn head and workworn hands. She chattered without pause about her brave, strong sky-trawling daughters as she showed him the mooncatch nets, patting the strings down to demonstrate their durability.

“And if you’re looking to harvest larger quantities, I can give you a deal for this one here.” She beamed. “My eldest can attest to its effectiveness.”

“The small size will be plenty. And the distilling kit, please.”

“Wonderful! I’ll pack them in bags for you now. Would you like to peruse the ordinary nets?” She waggled a bushy eyebrow. “Don’t go chasing our skyfish without a writ if you fancy keeping your hands, but these will work on water-fish just as well.”

“Just the mooncatch ones, thank you.”

He stowed the items in his satchel and picked up a tin each of iron powder and fabric dye on his way back to the market square. Ishaan returned some minutes later, carrying two unmarked sacks.

“It’s nice to’ve been outside,” Ishaan said as they made their way back down to the skydocks. “The air, you know?”

“Yeah,” Felun said, thinking of the labyrinthine safehouse and the buzzing Hive. “The sunlight, too.”

Ishaan gave him a suspicious, sidelong glance. “You’ve been doing dungeon dives? No, that can’t be right. This place is as barren as anything. What is it, really?”

He shrugged. “It’s complicated. You don’t need to know the details.”

“Uh huh. So why’s there a whole fleet of Cathayan ships here? Why are you here, right now?”

“Because my family is. Like I said, I’m on a holiday.”

“Doesn’t look like much of a holiday to me. You Sungrazers have different ideas of fun or something? You seem…” He waved a hand helplessly. “…Squirrelly. More than usual, I mean.”

Felun frowned, glancing skywards. “Well, it’s not all holiday. I’ve got personal projects to be working on.”

“Am I in any actual danger if you tell me the truth?” Ishaan asked. “Or are you just avoiding it because you think it’ll worry me? Because if that’s the case, I’m a hell of a lot more worried not knowing. Half-lit is worse than full dark, remember? Mind tricks up shapes in the corners.”

Felun stalled as the skydocks came into view. “It’s…complicated.” This was true. He didn’t know the full picture. He knew he’d done enough to help kill people somewhere in the castle looming at their backs. But telling Ishaan would only sour his view of him unnecessarily. “My parents are doing their usual thing,” he continued. “They’re after trade deals and resources and other stupid bullshit. So they’re working with the people here, plus a bunch of other people, and I’m just here to provide the building blocks. Or break them, more like. I’ll probably leave after you.”

“Yeah? Where to?”

He hesitated, thinking. He’d thought that things would be…better, away from Cathay. ‘Better in Fawnfell’ had changed into ‘better in Ironport’ once he’d been proven wrong. That second hope had held true for a while—but now he knew. There were no places that were ever truly safe. And there was no running away from himself.

It was the same problem he’d crashed headlong into, after leaving the first time: the childish hope that everything would be easier elsewhere. That the world would be kinder. Gentler. Had all that pain been good for anything? Had he changed at all?

He shrugged. “The world’s a big place, isn’t it? Somewhere far away.”